The Grimm Chronicles, Vol. 2 (16 page)

I spent yester-day getting a family of slaves into a safe house, what we in the Underground Railroad call a “station.” The “station master” who owned this particular house is a man who I’ll just call Timothy. Nice man. Big, round belly and pointed nose. Looks a lot like Benjamin Franklin.

Talks like him too.

“Eugene, I do believe we’ll be seeing three feet of snow this winter!”

“Eugene, a man who does not finish his plate is a man you shouldn’t trust.”

“Eugene, the day I find a pair of socks that fit will be the very same day men abolish war.”

“Eugene, why do you do it?” he asked me once. This must have been around a year ago, when I was running slaves through a “rail line” that went into Mississippi. “Why do you risk your life?”

Seemed like a dumb question to me. But he didn’t understand. How could he? So I told him the truth. “Timothy, somewhere out there are my parents. I’ll never find them, most likely, but I’ve found plenty of other families. And I don’t want any of them to feel the loneliness that I feel.”

Timothy just nodded. Maybe he understood a little.

Anywho! I got this family to their first “station” easy enough and Timothy set them up in his attic for the time being. I took off that very same night, getting a good five miles north before turning off the main road into a patch of woods that had more than its fair share of good resting places. Lots of hornbeams and oaks, with a few giant chestnuts, too.

That’s my secret, by the way. It’s why I’m so good at freeing slaves. Most people say just follow the ol’ drinkin gourd, but that’s not enough. See, if you know your trees, you know where you are.

All this talk of trees has got me thinking. About what that Confederate soldier told me. Truth is, I don’t really think he was a Confederate soldier at all. Knowing what he did about me, I was pretty sure he’d come from somewhere north and enlisted in the Confederate army to get to that very place we bumped into each other. Said he’d seen all of it in a dream.

Said a lot of strange things. Then he passed away. No time to bury him, but I did make sure to say a little prayer.

Early this morning, just as the sun was coming up, I took that fountain pen out of my little satchel and pulled off the cap.

“Here goes,” I said, pressing the diamond-shaped tip to a fallen log. A snake slipped out from one of the rotted holes, scaring me near to death. I fell back, kicking it away. Lord, how I hate snakes. Can never get used to them.

When I was sure it was gone, I crawled cautiously back to the log. I pressed the tip of the pen on it, moving it across the rough bark.

The ink glowed for a minute, then disappeared.

I stared at the fallen log for a minute, sure my eyes were playing tricks on me. I tried it again. The ink glowed, then disappeared again.

“So what’m I doing wrong?” I asked the empty forest.

The oak trees shrugged. What do we know, Eugene? We’re just trees. All we’re good for is whiskey barrels.

Then I remembered something the soldier had said: I had to imagine what I was drawing. And I had to know the object well enough that I could draw it in my head.

So I drew what came naturally. I drew a book. Specifically, I drew
Moby-Dick
, even coloring in the white whale on the cover. Then, when I was finished, while the drawing was still glowing a golden glow, I pulled it out of the tree bark.

And there it was. Only, it wasn’t a real book. Not exactly. The cover was real. The pages were real. But the words on the pages were few and far between as if the typesetter hadn’t used enough ink on the pages.

Then I realized it. The only words that had shown up were the words I remembered.

Then I realized what I’d just done. And nearly fainted right there in my little pile of wide-lobed oak leaves.

I couldn’t believe it, I—

(Pages missing)

July 8, 1864

Lots of stuff to write. Not quite sure what to do. I’m heading north. Trying to avoid the “stations” because I’m being followed. Last thing I want to do is put the Underground Railroad in any danger.

The Hessian is one mean son of a gun.

July 9, 1864

I think he’s lost my scent a bit. He came up on me so quiet-like that I didn’t even hear him. Was writing in my journal at the time. Recognized him the moment I turned around. Everyone along the north-south border has heard of Hessian mercenaries, fighting for the highest bidder. You see them fighting for the Union army one day, then the next day you see them fighting on the side of the Confederates. Whoever gives them the most money gets to tell them who to kill. Despicable human beings.

But this one who almost caught me, he’s something special. He looks like George Washington brought back from the dead, with curly brown hair and a dozen scars on his face. Wears a black vest and black pants and keeps a pistol holstered on his belt, next to a saber. Big, fat hands that could snap a man in two. He wore black gloves and black boots and a red leather strap that ran diagonally across his body. Tucked in that belt were a few knives.

Thankfully he doesn’t know his trees too well, and instead of making his way around a handful of American elm saplings, he tried pushing right through them to grab me. The young branches are strong as all get out, and they gave me just enough time to grab my knapsack and run.

The Hessian. That’s what he’s called. The most feared mercenary in the entire country. And currently being paid by the Confederate army.

July 10, 1864

I think he’s lost my trail. One thing I didn’t mention in my last entry was his cart. He takes a cart of books with him as he travels from battle to battle. Shipped it over from Germany. People say he likes to read after a battle. While everyone else is nursing their wounds and crawling to safety, he sits right there and pulls out a book. Scary, thinking about it. A person like that has lost any connection he had with his fellow man.

I wish could—

(Pages missing)

July 15, 1864

He caught me. Sure enough, he crept right up on me
again
and took me prisoner. The Hessian. And after he clamped my wrists in cuffs, he chained me to the back of his cart full of books.

Nothing quite like a six-hour walk to make a man miss New York City. And nothing like feeling cold steel around my wrists to remind me why I put myself in danger for the Underground Railroad. Brought back a lot of bad memories. Memories of my parents, too. Memories of seeing them put out in the field, while I sat on the dirt outside our little home, crying.

The Hessian, he didn’t care what I had to say. I knew it the moment he had the cuffs securely around my wrists. Smiled a wood-toothed smile, just a glint of pleasure in his rusty brown eyes. Only thing that would have made him happier was if he was smack-dab in the middle of a battle.

Violence corrupts the soul. Blinds the eyes. Makes a man into something less. The Hessian, he wasn’t no different. All he could think about was getting back into the fight. Poor sweet Eugene was just an afterthought. He was someone who could feed the horse pulling the cart, set up the camp at night, and whatever else he needed done. And when I was no longer useful? Well, then he’d just sell me off to the nearest plantation.

And it would be oh, so easy. See, after he tied me up, he took my free papers and burned them. Poof. A man’s freedom … gone.

July 16, 1864

Where was I? Of course … the great escape!

The Hessian didn’t have much use for my pen. In fact, he looked downright disappointed when he unwrapped the cloth covering it. He set the pen and my knapsack in his cart, next to a wooden crate filled with books. Some of the books were damaged, with wrinkled covers. He had six crates full of books and two of the covers for the crates were made of old, blistered wood. Probably pine. Bad choice, Mr. Hessian. It was no wonder rain was leaking in.

Might explain his bad mood.

That night, after I made his fire and laid out His Majesty’s sleeping quilt and got a kettle burning, he chained me back up and sat beside the fire, making himself a nice cup of tea while he read from his copy of
King Lear
. Everything was nice and peaceful … for him, at least. Me? I was chained to the back of a cart, lying on the hard ground without a blanket, shivering like a cat out of water.

The upside of having a dirt floor to sleep on is you don’t fall asleep too quick. But the Hessian? Well, he was all tucked in next to that roaring fire, sawing logs before I even had time to convince myself to
not
reach for the pen.

I knew the risk. If the Hessian woke up, he’d probably shoot me. Nothing worse than a slave who gets an itching to do some writing. Heck, there’s even laws against it for cryin out loud. But I wasn’t going back.

Never.

Eugene Washington is a free man.

Heart racing, I crept around the cart as far as the chains binding my wrists would let me. The chains made a rattling sound as they bumped against the wooden baseboards. I stopped, wincing and holding my breath. But the Hessian was still asleep. I reached out with my left foot, touching the pen sitting next to two crates of books. I could just touch it with my big toe, which had pushed its way through my shoes sometime during the forced march. I slid the pen closer, carefully, glancing over my shoulder to make sure the Hessian was still asleep.

Closer.

Closer now.

The moment it was close enough to grab, I reached out, unwrapping it from its cloth. I grabbed the pen and felt a surge of electricity run through me. The man who’d given it to me said my knowledge was my power. Well, if that was true, then there was only one thing to do.

I drew a door. Quite specifically, I drew a door leading down, and when I imagined it, I imagined the basement of my abolitionist friend, Timothy. Not even a basement, really. More of a storage space, where he could keep canned goods and the occasional escaped slave.

I drew a line through my metal cuffs, cutting them clean in half.

“Oh, Mr. Mercenary,” I called out.

The Hessian started awake. He sat up, looking around and blinking furiously.

I held out my hands. “My bindings seem to have come undone.”

The Hessian stood up and skulked his way over, not botherin to put on his weapon belt. I guess he thought what he had on his hands was a man more than ready to spend the rest of his life in bondage. Don’t blame him, really …

After all, how many people expect to step on a trap door
outside
? In the
woods
?

One mud-encrusted black boot stepped down on my little square-shaped creation, and I felt my heart skip a beat. It wasn’t going to work. This pen wasn’t magic at all. Poor Eugene really had gone crazy.

Then the door opened. The Hessian fell like a sack of bricks, tumbling right down the familiar staircase that led into Timothy’s basement. Only it wasn’t Timothy’s basement, and at the bottom of the stairs was just an empty space. I quickly hurried over to the cart, grabbing one of the heavy crates of books and setting it on top of the trap door opening. Then I grabbed another and set it there, too.

The Hessian pounded on the bottom of the crates, shouting something in German.

“Speak English,” I said, crouching down. I separated the two crates just enough to peer inside. Both of the crates were heavy, on account of all the hardcover books. A gloved hand shot out, nearly grabbing me by the throat.

“I’ll kill you!” the Hessian screamed. “I’ll destroy you blah blah blah blah blah!”

I let him drone on for a while. You know, so he could release some steam. He had a lot of anger, on account of being fooled by a Negro.

“I coulda killed you,” I said once he was finished. “Or I could leave you for dead. But I won’t. In fact, I’ll make sure the next person passing on this here road helps you out.”

“Kill me you coward!” he said, his eyes as big as dinner plates.

I shook my head. “Why, then I’d be no better than you, sir.”

“You are making a grave mistake,” the Hessian hissed.

“Nope. No I’m not. Showing compassion for another human being is never a mistake, sir. It’s what separates people like me from people like you, and I don’t ever want to become someone like you.”

I closed the crates, then set one more on top of them. There. Not even someone as tough as the Hessian could move all three. I unhitched his horse and sent her on her way, too.

Then I grabbed my journal and some new books.

“You can have my books,” I said to the Hessian, flashing him a smile bright enough to light up the entire night sky. “I’ll take a few of yours, and when I’m done with em, I’ll give them to some other soul.”

Well! That just riled the Hessian up even more.

“Do not take my books!” he yelled through the crack between the crates. His fists pounded the bottom of them, to no avail.

“Oh, you’ll get em back eventually,” I said, grabbing a copy of
Grimms’ Fairy Tales
and
Les Miserables
from the top crate. “You’ll find them! It’ll be a treasure hunt. You’ll find clues in the towns you pass. And the more time you spend looking for them, the less time you have to hurt other people.”